


The Diary of Curt Wild

by syllogismos



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Diary/Journal, Drug Addiction, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/pseuds/syllogismos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>As the centerpiece of the Metropolitan's retrospective </em>Singles of the Seventies<em>, this exhibit examines the origins and making of the chart-topping single "Satellite of Love," perhaps the most famous collaboration between British glam rocker Brian Slade (later: Tommy Stone) and American punk prime mover Curt Wild. The unedited diary of the late Curt Wild was donated to the museum by his husband, journalist Arthur Stuart.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diary of Curt Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nevermindthecrumbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermindthecrumbs/gifts).



## WILL NOT

Heroin

Smoke (crack esp.)

Mushrooms (Remember? No. No no no even if free)

Drink too much

(Free drugs and booze semi-acceptable? **NO** )

Behave like an animal on stage (People wear _clothes_ )

Fuck > 3 fans a week (includes BJs received - don’t know where mouths have _been_ )

Hearts-for-eyes teenage-girl crushes on British glam rockers (ex: Jack Fairy)

## WILL

Definitely stop buying drugs

Not be high all the time when not sleeping

Sell more records

Pay all debts to label + save money

Eat some veggies (potatos?)

* * *

#### January 4

Not sure if tour was good idea. Driving through Kansas now, nothing but flat and gray and flat and gray and obnoxious sound of tires turning turning turning. Dead boring without chemical assistance. Tried to read book, but made self carsick. Tried to nap, but preoccupied with tire sound. Thought could turn tire sound into song, but no. Who would want to hear that? Most annoying sound in world.

Motel next to a McDonald’s, entire quarter-mile radius smells like French fries and grease. Ate French fries, cheeseburger for dinner, washed down with warm beer. Reminded by Dave (road manager) to call Dick.

Dick is a dick. Wants me to replace two-week break in tour with trip to England for tiny music festival. Agree because, who knows? Two weeks should be long enough to stop in London, see Jack Fairy’s show at the Sombrero Club. (Seeing show is artistic interest of course, not teenage-girl crush-type interest. Mostly.)

#### January 10

Utah. Want to lay down in front of bus on road, fill ears in final moments with tire sound up close and personal, then be rolled out flat & dead, just like in old Looney Tunes when Sylvester gets himself steamrolled chasing Tweety.

Feel flat as if steamrollered already. What is point of sobriety if feel bad (& bored) all the time?

#### January 25

Glorious California, glorious cocaine. San Francisco and I enjoyed each other very very much.

Before show even, popped head outside green room to ask for a sandwich, found pouty-mouthed dark-haired youth waiting hopefully instead. Would have been cruel to disappoint him. Stripped him and sucked him, on my knees, constantly distracted by the perfect O of his mouth above me. Cock smells and tastes better than last time I had it, unless that is effect of clean living? (Not sure if all is worth better tasting dick, to be honest.)

“Let me,” youth said afterwards, licking his perfect lips.

“No,” I said (in manner of saint) and grabbed his hands. We unbuttoned my jeans and I showed him how to jack me off. And his face, watching, _his face_. Perfect mouth in perfect O big eyes open wide. Could never fuck such an innocent face.

#### January 26

Ah, well. Innocent Face made another appearance, brought some blow with him. Would have been rude and soul-crushing to refuse him. Fucked his tight little ass over dressing table, watching that mouth and its perfect O in mirror the whole time. Sucked him off again after I’d finished, him sitting on table leaning back against mirror with his smooth legs over my shoulders. Laid my head in his lap after I’d finished him and floated. Woken up by Dave just before show with, inexplicably, braids in hair (work of Innocent Face? likely, I guess).

Cannot say what possessed self, but shoved hand mirror in back of jeans before going on stage. Smashed it during “T.V. Eye”, picked up largest piece and used it to draw X on chest in blood. Stung like a bitch, but the good kind of hurt, like I was vacuum-bag all flat and empty and every cut let in more air. Inflated now. Floating still. High. Good.

#### January 30

Should be on break, heading to airport instead. Massive splitting hangover headache. Would be much better off with head in toilet like a normal person, lights off, in a quiet quiet place, not loud airport with pushing shouting busy busy busy too much noise.

Barfed in a trash can A concourse, dimly aware of ripple effect: mothers pulling little children away, fathers watching warily flexing fists in case I turn out to be _dangerous_. Hah. Dangerous only to self, promise.

“It’s gonna be great, champ,” Dick says, as if talking to ten-year-old in Little League. Have called him from airport payphone because have not talked yet about cost of this “little trip.”

Cost is all on me, of course, all against royalties.

“But you’ll see, buddy– Make it big over there, and you’ll just be bigger coming back here. Britain’s pop stars are, you know, buddy boy, I don’t have to tell you.”

“It won’t make me British.”

“What?”

Cannot believe Dick is such an idiot. “Going to Britain for two weeks won’t make me a British pop star.”

“Of course not! Not strictly speaking. But the audience– It’s the audience that you get _there_ that will follow you _here_.”

“Follow me here?”

“Not literally, Curt, just– It’s the Flow of things today. The jet stream of culture, the powerful undertow in the ocean of pop–”

Stopped listening, as pointless. Cannot, sometimes, believe that I am tens and tens of thousands of dollars in debt to such an idiot.

#### January 31

Podunk music festival, but hospitable, at least - free booze and drugs everywhere. Not so drunk (yet), watching odd “bloke” (as they say here), very odd. Wearing a purple velvet dress with hearts on it. Long wavy hair, plays sitting down. Has mouth that reminds me of Innocent Face. Crowd doesn’t like him, but I do. Wish he were spending time of set sitting on my face instead. Would be a better time for him, for sure. Probably a better time for me, but I don’t know. I like his songs. Haunting. Hard to watch with angry crowd though - I’m heading to the bottom of this fifth of vodka out of sympathy.

V. drunk by time on stage. New level of public filth achieved, though can barely remember. Glitter in ass crack is potent memory aid. Poss. out of order, but: fingered self, fondled self, oiled self, removed pants, glitter _everywhere_. EVERYWHERE. Glitter under fingernails. Glitter in pubic hair. Single piece of glitter found to be source of amazing amount of pain under foreskin (ow ow ow). Not sure if hope Dress-wearing Pouty Mouth was watching.

#### February 4

Dress-wearing Pouty Mouth has a name - Brian Slade.

#### February 13

Friday the 13th. Cannot believe have three more weeks of tour. Cannot be sober.

Also: cannot stop thinking about bending Brian Slade over dressing table like Innocent Face, lifting long dress up and over self, licking him out until he cries for mercy (& a cock in his ass). Think about reverse situation almost as often, just not with self wearing dress.

#### february 15

seattle is a great place for dope, thank fuck

#### february 25

blew my last shot of seattle dope, put a brick through our bus windshield, jacked myself on stage until dave hauled me off. asshole.

dick says i’m in the hole deep, but don’t give a fucking fuck. going home tomorrow.

#### march 6

low.

flat.

#### march 8

accident torched garage, but fuckers no one believes me. alone & low. wonder if could scrape together cash for dope (preferred) or steamroller rental?

#### march 9

can’t rent steamroller, apparently. not even rockstar can.

cheap dope is better than nothing.

#### march 18

correction - cheap dope is just cheap dope. enough to survive. (i hope)

#### june 2

what a fucking waste of time. should burn this.

fuck, can’t find lighter or matches. failure at everything.

#### June 6

Still think about Brian Slade sometimes. Think about him turning up here, in Ann-fucking-Arbor, hero on white horse-style. Think about him putting me in shower, washing me, drying me off and then getting me wet again with pouty mouth eating my ass and hot dick rubbing against my leg. Want him to push my face into a pillow and stick that dick in me, force it in if he has to, force me out of _this_.

Fuck. Phone ringing. May have called Dick yesterday, as am incredibly stupid and horribly in debt.

Unplugged phone and in process found forgotten baggie with maybe two grams behind couch. Hurrah!

#### july 1

tired & flat

#### july 2

_pathetic_

#### March 18

Even more pathetic: Brian Slade arrives, knight on white-horse style (well, and accompanied by entourage headed by simpering Electra records representative). Shakes my hand (Brian, not sweaty ballsack-faced representative), tells me my music is “smashing tops” and I, according to Sharon, who later cleaned me up and vomit too, parroted him and passed out. Wish could spontaneously combust in manner of Vietnamese monk.

#### March 19

Gave in. Am broke, and Dick ditched me forever ago. According to Brian’s “people,” his manager Jerry is open to a meeting. Today, lunch.

Here we go.

#### March 20

Jerry Devine is an A+ asshole, but an A+ asshole who is now my manager.

Am weak, pitiful specimen of humanity who has fallen for all the stupid bullshit business speak re: “synergie”, integration & strategy, a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Jerry: “God, the two of you! What a pair you’ll make. This decade’s Lennon & Yoko, only better. Yin and yang, the dark versus the glittering, monster and alien-”

Me: “Am I the monster?”

“Just think of it, your honeymoon phase: not a Bed-In for Peace, but a Bed-In for Rock’n’Roll. Loud and wild and proud. Glam and glitter, powdered wigs and wide lapels with a rose in the buttonhole…” (Tuned him out about then.)

“You’re not a monster,” Brian said to me, later, when we were (oh so briefly, too briefly) alone.

“And you’re not an alien,” I said.

“Am I not?” Locking eyes with me, unblinking (& unnatural). “How would you know?”

Could not tell if he was happy that I signed on with Jerry. Or, clear he was happy. Unclear _why_. Because he likes me? I don’t seem like his type, frankly. And he spends half his time staring at me like I’ve got spaghetti sauce all over my face or a booger sticking out of my nose.

If he was happy at all, he was happy because Jerry has grand plans to sell us to the world.

#### March 25

London. Still get sick riding in cars on wrong side of road, but all “transport” vehicles in use by Brian at this time are boat-like sedans with tinted windows in which can hardly tell one is moving. Is something strange about it, like just floating above the world, disconnected but tethered invisibly. Like satellite, maybe, constantly slipping & falling around the Earth in orbit, not in any danger of just floating away, despite appearances.

Life _chez_ Brian is like, hmm, feel like have been adopted by hyperactive puppy with good intentions but razor sharp baby teeth. Is all playful and soft one moment, then suddenly vicious with sharp comment or sharp look. Totally unpredictable, and since I am the one up to my eyeballs in debt and he is the New Face of British Pop cannot help but feel insecure about my place.

My place, to be specific: have been moved into Brian’s big house/glam factory, given room with connected bathroom. Everything is dark wood and drafty; no such thing, apparently, as storm windows. All ceilings high  with any nice warm air (if exists at all) floating up up and away. Brian waltzes around in bare feet, bare chest, jeans and a fur wrap around his shoulders. (Caught him, once, posing in a hall mirror, hands on hips with fur wrap thing tastefully dropping off one shoulder, lips pursed into perfect Pouty Face. He suddenly saw me in mirror, face flashed bright red, and gave me blood-curdling glare. Shudder even to think of it now. Hid in room that night, didn’t even come out for dinner when called by Mandy. Childish, but that’s me, isn’t?)

#### March 30

First time managed to drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen before noon, Brian startles when I walk in and spills tea in his lap. He’s got a plate of toast smeared with something dark from an open jar with a butter knife balanced on it, and he mops at the tea stain on his blue silk robe with a cloth napkin, cursing softly.

“Sorry,” I say, and he waves a hand without looking up or looking at me.

I rummage for the instant coffee and bread for toast, and ten minutes later I’ve smeared the brown stuff on my toast, and I’m sitting at the small table with him watching me intently as I bring the toast to my mouth. It takes like a dead animal. I spit it out, sputtering, and he laughs and laughs, doubling over with it.

“What is it?” I ask, after a mouthful of coffee to wash the taste away.

“Marmite.”

“Is it supposed to taste like that?”

Brian shrugs, one-shoulder, so coolly, so smugly I want to punch his face in. He makes me more toast and retrieves a jar of marmalade from one of the cupboards, but I won’t touch it after he puts it in front of me. I finish my coffee, make another cup.

“Do you have some ideas?”

“What?” I ask dumbly. It’s still too early for this kind of Inquisition.

“For the record?”

“Oh yeah. Sure man, right on. I’ve got ideas.”

Lies. Don’t have any. Haven’t written a song in over a year. _Shit._

#### March 31

Mandy. I don’t get Mandy.

We were all out, Brian with his arms around me & Mandy both all night long.

We get home, and Mandy sails off with a fluttery hand wave and the excuse of “beauty sleep.” I follow her, because drunk but not drunk enough to not be desperate to do something about how horny being plastered to Brian’s side all night made me. She hears me behind her in the hall and stops.

“What are you doing?”

“Bed,” I blurted out, “Tired.” Because apparently I was raised by wolves and can’t speak in full sentences.

“You’re not–?”

“No?” But I didn’t know what the question was.

#### April 4

The house has a little yard, or “garden” they call it here. Brian is scheduled for an interview on the radio. Since that’s not an appearance in the literal sense, just voice work, my presence next to Brian is not required. Mandy has gone too, as it is her habit to monitor Brian’s public appearances. (Have not got used to playing intimate with him when we make our appearances, her watching from near or far off, although the story is she doesn’t mind in the least. Hard to tell from her expression when I catch her watching. So often stony, or blank.)

So I am alone with the run of the house and “garden.” Have been asked again - almost on a daily basis - about my ideas for our studio time booked next month. Mumbled something to the tune (ha!) of “trying something different” when asked two days ago, but truth is still have a great big blank in brain. Flat and dry as the dessert.

So me and my guitar in the yard tonight have to try to make things happen.

Force my fingers to move, force something to happen. Pick notes at random, make a melody out of it, make a pattern. Do it over and over until something sticks.

Only thing remotely sticky was a little chorus. “Bum bum bum,” it starts, “Da-dee daa, de-daa.” Probably went through it twenty-five times, and maybe would have gone for twenty-five more, but–

Brian, suddenly.

“You’re right,” he says, stony-faced and pale in the moonlight. Drop dead gorgeous, in other words. “It is different.”

“Yeah,” I say, because it was the only thing I could come out with that wasn’t along the lines of “Nice shoes/face/everything, wanna fuck?”

#### April 6

Someone’s pounding at the door, and I’m wearing leather pants and no shirt while Brian applies my eyeliner, sticking his tongue out slightly as he concentrates. Cause: twenty minutes ago was trying to apply eyeliner after having done blue and purple glitter eyeshadow. Didn’t realize door to bathroom was a bit open, didn’t realize Brian wandered in and opened door wider. Didn’t realize he was watching me until looked in mirror and saw him staring, little crinkle in eyebrows like confused or worried. Surprised, poked self in eye with eyeliner, then by instinct rubbed at it and smeared make-up all over. Brian laughed, then stopped when I glared at him.

“I’ll go get some cold cream,” he’d said. Came back a couple minutes later with cold cream and fussed over me like a child, making me remove the make-up, wash my face, put my shirt on (hardly a shirt, see-through thing that wardrobe delivered and no doubt Jerry picked out), then offered to do my eyeliner.

Did not know eyeliner application would require Brian standing so close, between my legs while I’m backed up against the sink. _He_ doesn’t seem affected. He holds my chin in his hand firmly and does the tongue-sticking-out concentrating thing which is terribly cute but also very efficient. Done faster than I expected, and then he’s gone.

We’re getting all dolled up to make an appearance at the Sombrero. Jerry’s idea, naturally. Brian holds my hand from the car to the door, looking away, away at the cameras.

#### May 10

Music festival not unlike the one when I first saw Brian play. Muddy and messy and loud, but it’s easy to slip away. I slip away.

There’s a pond off a little path that I found. Very quiet and still and you can actually see the stars reflected on the surface. Lay on my back, look up, stars don’t really look any different an ocean away. And there’s a satellite blinking along too, on a strange and straight manmade path where it doesn’t belong.

I heard the footsteps, but I didn’t guess it was Brian until he spoke.

“What are you looking at?”

“Satellite,” I answered.

“Where?” He sat down next to me then laid back in the dirt, still wearing his favorite fur coat. A bit of it tickled my cheek, and I wanted to turn and bury my face in it, but instead I pointed up to the blinking satellite.

“How do you know it’s a satellite?”

“The way it’s moving, and the blinking. Stars don’t blink like that.”

“I thought they twinkled.”

I propped myself up on my elbow and looked over at him. Couldn’t tell if– Could tell at a look though. Not mocking me, genuinely curious, his face all soft and open.

“How do you know what’s a blink and what’s a twinkle?”

“I don’t know.” I flopped back onto my back. “Maybe– Don’t you remember Sputnik?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Maybe it was a bigger deal in America. Scared us all, you know, the Russians putting something in the sky.”

“Like a star.”

“Yeah, like a star. All the way up there.” I waved my hand up, and then Brian plucked it out of the air and tugged, rolling over onto his side and pulling me into him. He kissed me, and I kissed him, and together we ruined his favorite fur coat.

#### May 11

I think I have an idea for a song. Words for that chorus I had in the garden. And I think the melody will be good on piano.

* * *

[Text added in another hand]

> Curt, if you find this you’ll probably be embarrassed by it, but please don’t throw it out. Fair warning - if you die before I do, I’m giving [it] to a museum. xx Arthur


End file.
